


Solar Spectrum

by poetatertot



Series: Spectrum [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Basically Earth shenanigans, Cooking to Salsa Music, Dancing in the Rain, Family Drama, Keith discovers the magic of paletas, M/M, Pining Keith (Voltron), Walks On The Beach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 05:50:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11155545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetatertot/pseuds/poetatertot
Summary: There’s life and sound in Lance's home that he’s never had before, pressed into the photos on the walls and the twins' laughter coming from the yard, soaked in the heaps of laundry and tucked under every bedsheet and blanket.The sun lives in this house,Keith knows.This is where I'm meant to be.





	Solar Spectrum

**Author's Note:**

> Who writes epilogues that are double the first work's length? Me, apparently.  
> This piece serves as the aftermath for [Saline Spectrum](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10742037), although it's fine to read this on its own!
> 
> Happy one year of VLD everybody!

 It’s been a day since they returned to Earth.

Keith sits on the couch, trying his best to keep his back straight. It’s not working. The couch is old, springs squealing pitifully when he sits, and the frame sags dangerously in the middle as if his butt is going to bust right through the bottom. He perches as light as he dares and lets his calves take most of his weight.

Lance looks up from where he sits, slouched into a threadbare armchair across the sunroom. The light outside is pleasantly warm and golden — it spills through the windows like paint to cover the cream carpet, the numerous framed photos on the walls, the classic coffee table with its knitted centerpiece. Keith marvels how the light brushes Lance’s skin. He’s practically glowing.

“You look like you’ve got a stick up your ass.” Lance raises an eyebrow. “We’re not holding you hostage or anything, so what gives?”

Keith scowls. “What, I’m not allowed to sit here?”

“You’re not sitting. I can tell. You’re doing that— that _thing._ ” He squints hard at Keith.

“Thing? Use your words, Lance.”

“Y’know,” he huffs, setting down the tablet in his hands. “Like, when your hand hovers around a girl’s shoulder? Cause she hasn’t made it clear if she’s into you?”

Keith stares. “No,” he says slowly, dragging out the o. “I don’t know.”

Lance’s second eyebrow rises to meet the first. “No, of course not,” he sighs, sinking back into his chair. “I forgot, you’re only _knifesexual._ ”

_No,_ Keith can’t help but think. _I’m only into you._

“Better than trying to jump everything that moves,” he snaps, feeling his cheeks flush. For all the bond they share as paladins, Keith thanks his lucky stars everyday that they can’t read each other’s minds. He would have had to move to Alaska by now, start over a new life living in an igloo. Live among the seals. The works.

He would’ve had to deal with Lance _knowing._

Keith doesn’t remember exactly when it all started. It’s not like he can pinpoint it to one moment on the ship, or in battle, or anywhere else. It was the conglomeration of close contact, he thinks — having to eat with Lance, sit with Lance, fight with Lance, strategize with Lance. They shared the same space, breathed the same air. Keeping Lance at a distance was impossible even if he didn’t suck attention in like a black hole. Keith couldn’t get away if he tried.

Not that he was trying, anyway.

Lance frowns and opens his mouth, likely ready to launch into another complaint, but stops. His head tilts carefully, as if he’s listening for something, and then—

“Nina? Is that you?”

A tiny, brown pig-tailed head pops out from behind the sunroom doorway. Her mouth purses petulantly in an eerily-accurate imitation of Lance’s.

“How did you know it was me?” she whines, sliding fully into view. Nina and her twin Javi are both six, Keith learned, and very apt for sneaking. He’d woken up that morning with them breathing over him in the guest room. “I was so _careful._ ”

“It’s a talent,” Lance smirks, crossing his arms. He sticks his chin out. “I just _know._ You wouldn’t understand.”

“You cast a shadow,” Keith says bluntly. Nina fixes her stare on him, big eyes sweeping over him.

“Why are you sitting funny?” she sniffs. Lance bursts into laughter.

 ***

Despite Lance’s insufferable anxiety leading up to the ship’s landing, he seems to be the first to assimilate to Earth. After embracing his mother in a whirlwind of tears and open sobbing on his mother’s part — Keith had to look away, feeling strangely as if he were intruding — Lance had introduced them all.

“My partners in space,” he murmurs, clinging to his mother’s sleeve like a child. “I wouldn’t have lived without them.” Maria looks all of them in the face, one arm wrapped around her son’s waist.

“Thank you,” she whispers fervently. Her eyes alight last on Keith, warm and shimmering with unshed tears. “There is no way I can ever thank you enough for protecting my son.” Keith feels his cheeks warm, staring into her blue eyes, and has to look away again. There’s a sharp hook in his chest, tugging at his heart uncomfortably.

“Will you all come inside?” Maria asks. Even drawn up to her full height she’s small, the top of her head brushing Lance’s chin. “I haven’t started making breakfast yet, but there’s coffee.”

“That would be great.” Shiro smiles warmly. Beside him, Hunk looks as if he might float into the stratosphere.

They all end up huddled around the kitchen island. Keith has had coffee a grand total of three times in his life but finds himself staring into a steaming mug anyway. Beside him, Pidge is slurping down their cup with alarming speed. Every two sips or so they stop to groan dramatically, glasses completely fogged.

Lance and Maria converse in hushed tones, bodies pressed together as close as they can be. Her one arm around his waist is solid and protective, as if she’s trying to tuck him under her wing. The weak light from the kitchen window behind them dribbles onto Maria’s cotton robe and Lance’s rumpled hair; if Keith were to stand back and squint, he could almost believe they were in a painting. He swallows hard and tears his gaze away.

“Are you gonna drink that?” Hunk asks, nodding towards Keith’s full cup.

“Yeah,” he says, reflexively taking a sip. It’s surprisingly sweet; there are flavors of cinnamon and raw sugar, mixed in with lots of cream. He takes another, longer drink to savor the taste.

“It’s been so long since we’ve had human food,” Shiro says. “Thank you, really.”

Maria smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. _Just like Lance_ , Keith thinks with a sick pang. Of course.

“Anything for my son’s companions.” She pauses, obviously mulling over Shiro’s words. “Did you have other rations to live off of? Out in space?”

“That’s..” Lance bites his lip, looking between his mother and the rest of them. “We had help.”

“Help? From who?”

“It’s not important,” Lance evades, smiling weakly. “We’re here, right?” Maria frowns.

“Can I have another cup? Please,” Pidge suddenly says, drawing attention away.

Keith fixes Lance with a look over Maria’s head when she turns to the coffeepot. _What gives?_ They can’t pretend they aren’t paladins, _protectors of the universe_ , just because they’ve come back to Earth. Allura and Coran are still waiting on ship, invisible in the ocean. What is Lance doing?

What about when they have to leave Earth again? How will he explain _that?_

_Not now,_ Lance mouths. He runs a hand through his rumpled hair, forcing the top of it to stick up oddly. Keith crushes the urge to reach out and smooth it for him.

“You’re going to have to sit down after breakfast and tell us everything.” Maria stares hard at her son, breaking eye contact only to pass Pidge their mug. “They’ll want to know, and—”

“Mom?”

Everyone freezes. Keith’s eyes dart towards the doorway from the kitchen to the living room. The guy standing there in his pajamas stares back, his mouth open in a wide, silent _o._

“Lance,” he whispers. He seems frozen to the spot, mouth slack even as his face skips through several expressions, settling on disbelief. “ _Lance?_ ”

Lance nearly drops his own mug in his haste to pass it to Keith; the coffee inside sloshes over the brim, stinging his skin. Keith doesn’t bother to look; his eyes are stuck on Lance, choking on a sob, rushing forward to grab the stranger by the shoulders. They stare at each other for a long moment, mouths trembling, arms patting each other as if neither can quite believe it. Again, Keith feels the nauseating urge to look away. None of them should be watching this.

“Where have you _been?_ ” The man finally says. His mouth is a hard line even as he rubs Lance’s shoulders. He seems caught between wanting to squeeze Lance tightly and punch him in the face. Keith knows the feeling. “We’ve been worried _sick_ about you for _years._ We _thought you were dead!”_

Lance winces. “Tony,” he murmurs, patting his biceps, “you’re gonna wake up the twins—”

“I don’t care,” Tony hisses, jerking out of Lance’s grasp. He lifts his chin to fix them all with an icy look. “Who the hell are all of you? What’s going on?”

Maria sighs heavily. “We should move to the table.”

The recounting of their tale is abbreviated. Lance starts talking too fast, fumbling over himself; Shiro has to chip in, interjecting in his low, calming tone. Keith notices how they scrape over mentioning Allura and Coran specifically, or the daily threat of death at the Galra’s hands. All the lesser details — dodging planets just as they’re destroyed, being sucked into wormholes, isolation from each other for days at a time due to technical error — are left out entirely. Tony’s face is stony by the end of it.

“You’re telling me that I’m supposed to believe that you guys were fighting evil aliens in battle mech lions for over a year? And you couldn’t even bother making _some_ sort of connection? What sort of high-tech excuse is that?” He sits back in his chair. “I don’t believe it.”

Lance cringes. “Tony, listen—”

“You don’t have to believe it,” Keith snaps. Tony’s eyes flick to him, looking him up and down. He scowls, daring him to speak up. “Whether you believe us or not, that’s what happened.”  
  
“Wait—”  
  
“And who are you?” Tony growls. “Another nutcase the Garrison dumped?”

_“You_ —” Keith can feel his face twisting into a snarl. He knows, deep down, that there’s no way Tony could have known his jab was a lucky guess. It doesn’t make it sting any less.

_“That’s enough._ ” Maria grabs her son by the arm, knuckles white. “Tony. Is it not enough that Lance is home?” Her face suddenly looks worn, exhausted. Keith realizes the pinched lines around her eyes aren’t all from smiling. “It’s too early for this kind of talk. Go water the yard, _mijo._ ”

“But mom—”

“No.” She fixes him with a cold stare, intimidating even in her fuzzy nightgown. “I’ll let you know when breakfast is ready.”

Tony scowls, pulling out of her grip. He stands roughly, jostling the table, and refuses to look at any of them before leaving the room. They sit in silence for several seconds.

“We’re sorry,” Shiro murmurs. “We shouldn’t have— it was too soon. We should have come later.” _We shouldn’t have come inside at all_ , Keith thinks, but doesn’t say anything. Lance is pale, staring at the tablecloth. He’s biting his lip so hard he might break the skin.

“I’m glad you didn’t.” She finally sags, leaning back in her chair. “I wouldn’t have wanted the twins to see him like this.” She rubs Lance’s back and he leans in, resting his head on her shoulder. “You know he means well. It’s just.. a shock.” Lance doesn’t say anything. He looks as if he might cry again.

_This is wrong._ Keith may be socially awkward, but even he knows when it’s time to leave. “We should..” Keith coughs, swallows. “We should be going.” He doesn’t want to see anymore of whatever is happening. It doesn’t concern them.

He squishes the acid in his belly, the tiny voice in his head that says _but where would you go?_

“Before breakfast?” Maria looks up from her son. “Are you sure?”

“Food does sound good,” Pidge admits sheepishly. “But.. I need to see my mother. She’ll want to know I’m home.” They swallow audibly, fingers dancing along the edge of the table.

“Me too,” Hunk nods. His lips quirk up at the corners. “They’re going to be so surprised when I show up.”  
Maria’s mouth drops open. “You haven’t told them you’re home? You should let them know! There’s a phone in the kitchen — but I don’t want to keep you — Why did you come here first?”

Keith can feel everyone’s eyes swivel to him. _Nope._ He’s going to stare at this family photo and not make eye contact with anyone.

“Your home was the closest to where we entered orbit,” Shiro supplies, when it’s clear Keith isn’t going to fess up. “It was lucky for us, really.” Maria smiles brightly like the sun.

“Wait.” Lance looks up from his mother’s shoulder. He looks even more exhausted than Maria, but he fixes Keith with a sharp look. “Where are _you_ going?”

“What?”

“Y’know,” he mutters, shifting to sit properly again. “You don’t.. Well.” He rocks awkwardly in his seat. “You know what I mean.” Oh, Keith definitely knows. They all do. He was just hoping nobody would mention it until they got back on the ship. But now they’ve got Maria’s attention, and she’s peering at him curiously from across the table, brow furrowed as if she’s worried for him even though they’ve just met.

“I’m an orphan,” Keith says flatly. He looks Maria in the eye. “It won’t be a problem. I’m sure one of my host families will let me stay.” Maybe. Probably. The last home he’d been in had only been for a month, before he was shipped off to the Garrison. And then..

“You don’t have to go, you know.”

Keith blinks. Looks to where Lance is sitting, staring very hard at the table. His face is rapidly turning pink — any longer, and a Cuban tomato will be sandwiched between Maria and Hunk instead of a person. Keith clears his throat.

“Come again?”

“You heard me,” Lance mutters. He puffs out his cheeks, crossing his arms and nervously tapping at one bicep. “You can just stay here. It’s — it’s not for too long, right? Allura said we’d only have a week off, before..” He coughs. “I mean! If that’s fine? Because if it isn’t—”  
  
“ _No,_ ” Keith cuts in, feeling his own face warming. _Stop that._ “It’s uh. It’s fine. But.. don’t you want to just.. y’know. Won’t I be intruding?” He looks at Maria but she’s smiling again, eyes twinkling as if she knows something they don’t.

“It’s not a problem,” she says, patting Lance’s arm. He’s spontaneously combusted under her touch, slumping into his chair. “You deserve a proper rest, after all you’ve been through. We’d be happy to give you a place to stay.”  
  
Shiro beams like a proud father, nudging Keith. “Thank you.” Even through the weird fluttering in his gut that says _leave,_ he can’t deny the tiny part of his heart that jumps and says _yes._

He’ll deal with that part later.

 ***

The first thing Keith learns is that Lance’s home is _warm._ Not in just the physical sense — Cuba is freakishly hot compared to the regulated temps on the ship — but in every other aspect too. The house is full of windows and skylights, allowing the outside world to pour in as color and smell and sound. He spends a lot of the first day sleeping, catching up on rest he’s set aside for months, but wakes to the smells of dinner and the faint laughter of children. It’s surreal.

He discovers the wonder of daybreak on the second day, when the marine layer burns away during breakfast. Instantly, the grey-blue tones of the white kitchen tile are buttery; _everything_ is yellow, slathered in heat and brilliant rays that bounce off counters and cabinets, sending shards of golden light everywhere. The moment is so startling that he has to stop eating, pausing with the spoon in his mouth. Beside him Lance tilts his head back, exposing his long neck to the warmth. The way the sun hits him, Keith can see how the tips of his eyelashes are trimmed in daylight.

“I missed this,” Lance murmurs. His voice is husky and soft, and when he opens his eyes Keith can feel his heart squeezing painfully. The line between Lance’s eyes is smooth, lips parted and slack the way he’s only been in sleep before. He looks.. peaceful. “The sun.”

Keith looks down at his emptying bowl of leftover arroz con leche. His insides have turned to warm jelly, unnatural but it feels _good_. “Me too,” he mumbles.

Lance tilts his head and smiles. “You almost done? I’ve got some stuff I want to show you.”  
  
“You do?”

“Duh!” Lance nudges him with his shoulder. “Come on. Finish your food.”

Keith doesn’t know why he’s surprised; even when Lance had been recovering from injuries on the ship, he was always moving about and talking. And now that Zarkon was dealt with.. well. There wasn’t anything to stop Lance now, was there? He nods, scraping the sides of the bowl for the last food bits, and follows Lance out into the hallway.

Another thing about Lance’s home is that it’s full of photos. They line the hallway in a collage from waist to above eye level; they hang around the dining room in big family portraits; they even perch above the toilet in the guest bathroom, a small photo of baby Lance and Tony in the bathtub. There’s never been so many in any of the homes Keith has stayed in before. It’s unsettling.. but not bad. It occurs to Keith, briefly, that he’s never had more than a handful of photos ever taken of him before. How would it feel to have his face plastered everywhere like this?

“Let me grab us both some sandals,” Lance says, ducking into what must be his bedroom. Keith stands at the door, hesitant, and watches him wiggle underneath the bed to find a mate to one sneaker. This room had been shut all yesterday when Keith was sleeping and moving into the guest room; he finally has the chance to observe it now.

Even in this bedroom, there are two windows that let in the salty breeze from outside; a palm frond shudders beyond the glass, scraping gently. The usual bedroom works are there, with all the blankets scattered from the bed onto the carpet. But as Keith steps in, he can see the walls are haphazardly covered in.. things. Photos pinned here and there, swim medals hung beside the bed, a huge poster mapping Alpha Centauri. There are even glow-in-the-dark stars glued to open spaces, wherever they can fit.

“Ah ha!” Lance wiggles excitedly from where he’s smushed, feet kicking as his arms move unseen. His shirt has ridden up considerably, exposing tons of of smooth, brown skin; Keith can see a few freckles at the base of his spine, a small sprinkle of cinnamon that makes his heart lurch painfully.

Lance emerges after a moment, rumpled but smiling bright as ever. In his hands are two pairs of sandals. “Black or blue?”

“Black.” The sandals feel strange when Keith slips them on; he can feel the odd arches and dips where another pair of feet have worn them into familiarity. _Lance’s feet_ , he thinks. The idea is comforting. “Where are we going?”

“Secret,” he winks. “You’ll see when we get there.”

Even in June gloom, the passing morning is blindingly bright. The sun peeks out past smatterings of clouds, lighting the sidewalk briefly as it dips and jumps from shade to shade. Keith feels as if he’s walking through postcard snapshots; the scenery is picturesque, colors standing out and fading as the world shifts around them. The palm trees rustle in a breeze that stirs his clothes, tickling uncut hairs against cheeks and forehead.

Everything feels serene in a way Keith hasn’t felt in so long — a sensation he’s only had when floating in the empty abyss of space. Maybe it would disturb him if he were alone, wandering with just his thoughts, but Lance is more of a comfort than Keith first realized he could be. Whether he likes it or not, Lance has become a rock of constancy in Keith’s life, and he’s happy to share the quiet with him.

It doesn’t take a genius to guess where Lance is headed. The walk to the beach has already become familiar, traced twice before the castleship launched back into orbit. The sun rises higher in the sky, running for its pinnacle as they cross streets and walk around a garage sale, exchanging shy smiles and waves with the locals. Keith is relieved that nobody seems interested in stopping them to chat. He’s already seen one too many reunions of Lance’s that he shouldn’t have.

After the unfortunate encounter with Tony, Keith only saw him once more. He had just washed up for bed proper, slipping into pajamas that Maria offered from a big wicker basket, when Tony passed in the hallway. He paused, wavering in the darkness, as Tony’s figure slipped from the livingroom into a bedroom halfway down the hall. The door clicked behind him and that was that. He was nowhere to be found the next day.

“Guess he already left for work,” Lance said at breakfast, but his smile was weak.

Being outside does wonders for Lance’s mood, Keith knows. He suspects this walk is as much for Lance as it is for him, what with how he perks up and walks confidently after several blocks. He stops occasionally to give info on other houses, establishments, dirt lots marked with lines and stones for ballgames. With every story Lance’s smile grows brighter, lighter. He blooms under the noon sun, handsome with all of his tiny scars and freckles. Keith’s heart swells just looking at him.

The sun reflects off of the sand and water, effectively turning the whole beach into a giant reflective mirror. He squints, feeling his eyes water just a bit; beside him, Lance is shading his eyes with both hands.

“There it is,” he sighs. “The ocean.”

The two take a moment to look at it all. Keith watches the white masts of tiny sailboats ripple in the water, bobbing and dipping in the glassy water like tiny porcelain shards. If he crosses his eyes just a bit, Keith can imagine that everything is just one big, glowing mirage of silver and blue. A bright, beautiful, dream.

When he uncrosses his eyes, Lance has already toed off his sandals and begun trekking for the water. He sinks his feet into the sand carefully, wiggling his toes and smiling so hard that his face _must_ be aching. His eyes crinkle as he looks back, cheeks pink.

“You coming?” He laughs. “It’s prettier up close.”

_I bet it is._ Keith can’t help but smile, following his tracks in the sand until they reach the water. He rolls his pants up to the knees and wades in just a bit, wiggling his toes into the wet sand. Baby waves wash over his pale feet, salty and cool, sucking him gently into its rippling rhythm. They stand shoulder to shoulder as the sandcrabs burrow under arches and teeny shells trickle in and out with the tide. Seagulls scream from somewhere to their left at a tiny pier, flocking to the sun in a flutter of white wings. Keith runs his tongue over his lips and tastes salt.

“It feels like a dream,” Lance murmurs after several minutes. He shuffles in the sand, kicking it over Keith’s feet to bury them. “I’m afraid that if I close my eyes for too long, I’ll wake up back on the ship.”  
“It’s been too long,” Keith agrees. He understands the feeling perfectly. Every moment under the sun with Lance feels like a far-off dream, a movie of someone else’s happy ending that _surely_ can’t be his because how could he possibly have any of this?

“We never.. I just—” Lance sighs, long and heavy. “If I had known how long it would take, I would have done so many things differently. Everything feels _off_. You know?” His frown is the smallest downward curve. “Everything has changed while we were gone.”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t help but wonder..” He swallows hard. “Would it have been better if we didn’t come back?”

Keith stares. “What are you talking about? You’re the one who wanted to return so badly. You even said—” He stops, clenching the sandals tightly in his fist, and sucks in a breath. “You wanted to see the sun rise over Earth, remember? So.. we’re here now.” It’s not enough, it’s nowhere near enough and Keith knows it even as the words come out, but he understands Lance’s doubt. There’s nobody to welcome Keith back, no goal in returning to their home planet, nothing — nobody — that might have missed him. He can’t imagine what it would be like to be Lance, thinking of all these people and places he thought he’d always have when he got back. And then, after all they’ve done..

_I don’t believe you._

“You’re loved,” he blurts. Lance tilts his head, looking at him in his peripheral. “I mean. Your mom is happy you’re back. And your sister Nina. And Javi..” His face is getting warm. What is he trying to get at here? “There’s plenty of people happy you’re back. I think.. It’s good. That we came back.”

Lance looks at him, mouth falling open in a soft _o._ And then he’s grinning, jaw clicking shut to bare teeth. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah.” Keith doesn’t remember when Lance turned to face him, but he suddenly realizes how close they are, hips and hands brushing. He can see the tiny flecks of grey in Lance’s eyes, even his own reflection somewhere deep.

_What,_ he wonders, _does he see?_

They follow the shoreline for a while. The line of sea foam is like the edge of a great, frothing bathtub; the water, warm and crystalline, rushes over their feet, making the blue veins under Keith’s skin stand out sharply. They don’t talk much about anything — nothing that Keith can remember later, when he lies in bed and begrudges his sunburned cheeks. Words are said, sung, laughed, and lost to the rumbling waves and screaming seagulls.

There are so many experiences Keith has had in the past months — moments of terror, near-death, wildness that only overcomes you in space — but none of them are anything like what he has now. He stares out over the glass waves, at the blue sky and how flushed and bright Lance is beside him, and soaks it all in. He’ll hold onto this forever.

Lance plucks debris from the sand and holds it up to the sun, squinting like a practiced jeweler with his tongue peeking between gritted teeth. Each shell is accompanied by a proclamation, though Keith has no idea what makes a good shell from a bad one. Lance finds a way to praise them all. “This one is extra brown!” “Look at the whorls of blue on this one.” “This one — it’s red as a brick!”

“That’s because it _is_ a brick,” Keith points out. He grabs the red rock from Lance, turning it over in his palm. “See how it isn’t smooth and shit? There’s no way it’s a regular rock.”  
  
“Since when did _you_ become the shell connoisseur?” Lance sniffs. “ _I’m_ the one living at the beach!”

“Since you decided to be a know-it-all.”  
  
“Impossible. I can’t be the know-it-all if _you’re_ here.”

Keith can’t help but laugh, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. The moment is so ridiculous, so _childish_ , it rings back to the daily arguments they used to have over everything. He laughs and laughs, letting the ocean splash against his pale legs, running salt and sand over his feet. And when he finally manages to stop, soft chuckles escaping like hiccups, Lance is there beaming at him. They exchange warm smiles. Everything is warm, for a time. 

***

Tony never shows up for dinner.

“He’s working late,” Maria says, the phone clutched in one fist. She had just been ready to take off her apron and sit at the table. “He said not to wait for him.”

Nina cocks her head to one side, frowning. “But Tony never works late!”

“Must’ve been an emergency,” Lance says. He turns to Keith, passing him his cutlery. “No problem, right? More for us!” He attempts a wan smile.

“Sure.” Keith plucks the fork and spoon from Lance’s grasp, hating how he can feel Lance’s hands shaking.

 ***

On the third day, Keith wakes to a message blinking on his tablet. He lays there in bed for a moment, smelling the heavy _Fabuloso_ everything is wiped down with, rolling the nub of the home-knit quilting between his fingers. _1 new message. 1 new message._

Somewhere outside he can hear the bright peals of Nina and Javi laughing. There’s a hiss of a sprinkler, and the faint caw of seagulls. The clock ticks.

He sits up after a full minute, leaning across the bed to reach the device. Apparently the tablet’s been blinking for hours — the message sent at the crisp hour of 4am. He slides past the lock, pausing to stare at the collection of apps on the home screen.

The tablet feels strange, brought out of space into this reality; there’s the time devices running on Altean standard, the runes calculating distance and location across the universe. If he wanted, he could peek and see where everyone else was at this very second, but he quells the urge and opens messenger. It’s from Shiro.

_Hope things have been going well._

There’s a photo attached of Shiro and a tiny, aging woman. She has one arm wrapped around his waist, and they’re both smiling so peacefully that Keith can’t help but feel a pang in his chest. He stares at them for a moment, comparing eyes and noses and the curvatures of their smiles. They are near identical, mother and son. _Just like Lance and Maria._

Keith swallows hard and sets the tablet aside. He’ll message Shiro back later.

The kitchen is empty. There’s a note, scrawled on the fridge: _Out for groceries._ A hot pot of coffee is rumbling gently in its carafe. Keith stands uncertainly at the counter, staring at the cabinet where he knows the coffee mugs are. Should he pour himself some? Or—

“Up early?” Lance leaps into the kitchen, sliding on his socks towards the fridge. “Thought you’d sleep in a little more.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Since when do I sleep in?”

“Since we landed on Earth, actually,” Lance retorts. “You don’t notice cause we don’t have a clock in the guest room. It’s on purpose, you know. Mamá knows what she’s doing.”

Of course. Now that he thinks about it, there aren’t really any clocks anywhere in the house. Just walls of photos and open windows to let the light in. It’s.. kind of nice.

“Well,” Keith huffs, “I’m up now. Can I get some coffee?”

“I don’t know, can you?”

Keith gives him a flat look. Does he think he’s being funny? “I’m getting some coffee, Lance.”

“Okay, then.” Lance leans back and hops up onto the counter, swinging his legs like a little kid. He’s got on some pajamas with rocket ships and little moons, and the way his hair sticks up in the back reminds Keith of the toddlers from the homes. Rumpled and soft. “Pour me a cup too, would ya?”

“Isn’t this your house?” Keith snorts, but takes out two mugs anyway. The coffee heats his face when he pours it in, and he sucks in a slow breath of the smell, loving how it rushes over his cheeks. “Cream and sugar?”

“You know it.”

The silence stretches between them, tranquil and slow. Keith watches as Lance dumps in enough sugar and milk to give himself a stomachache, topping it with dashes of cinnamon and a tiny lump of what looks like chocolate. He plops it in and stirs with his spoon slowly, whistling all the while. “What’s that? Chocolate?”

“Abuelita.” Lance is triumphant, grinning ear to ear. “God’s gift to mankind.  
  
“Your grandmother?”

“ _No_ , Keith — although she’s also a gift.” Lance reaches into a yellow hexagonal box, popping out a block of chocolate. “It’s for making hot chocolate and stuff. You put it in with boiled milk.” He snaps off another piece from the circle, holding it out for Keith to take. “It doesn’t taste too great by itself though, so don’t try to just eat it.”

Keith stares at the little mottled lump in his hand and sniffs it. It smells earthy and spicy, like fancy chocolate and warm spice cake and cinnamon. His mouth is already watering from just one inhale. When was the last time they had so many Earth delicacies, back to back to back?

_Better make it quick_ , a tiny part of his brain mutters. _Who knows how long you’ll be gone next time?_ Keith frowns. Would it be weird to ask Lance to indulge him like that? They are in Lance’s home territory after all..

Keith peeks up at him through his lashes. He’s got both hands cupped around the mug, letting his nose rest gently on the brim. With his eyes closed, inhaling the smell, Keith can see how feathery and golden-brown his eyelashes are. He swallows hard, tearing his gaze away.

“Hey Lance?” Keith drops the lump into his own coffee, watching it disintegrate at the bottom with his spoon.

“Yeah?”

“We should go out today.” He forces himself to sound as casual as possible, even though he can feel the telltale heat rising to his face. Curse his pale, traitorous skin.

“Out?” He can see him in the corner of his eye, hands tightly gripped around the mug’s lip. “We’ve _been_ going out.”  
“No,” Keith mumbles. He scuffs the smooth tile with one toe. How to say it? “Like.. Out to eat. It’s not that I don’t like the food here or anything,” he adds hurriedly, seeing the way Lance’s mouth twists, “but like.. I really want. Um. Ice cream. You said they make flan flavor here, right? I remember you talking about it on the ship.”

“You remember that?” Lance raises an eyebrow in disbelief.

_I remember all of our conversations._ “Yeah. So.. We should go, while we still have time. If you want to.” By now the chocolate has to be dissolved, but he can’t make himself stop stirring. He needs to do something with his hands or he’ll combust. Why is this so difficult to ask for? “Do you?”

“Do I want to eat sweets with a pretty boy on the beachfront?” Lance’s second eyebrow rises to meet the first. “Who do you think you’re talking to here?”

“Then it’s a date,” Keith says, immediately cringing at how that sounds. “Uh, I mean—”  
  
“It’s a date.” Lance tilts his head, smile bright. He sets his mug on the counter and hops down, ruffling Keith’s bedhead. His face is almost as pink as Keith imagines his own to be. “I’ve got just the place in mind, actually.”

It takes two hours for the rest of the household to figure out their plans. Keith is brushing his teeth, fingers worrying over the frayed edges on his single pair of pants, when he realizes he’s being watched. There’s a single pair of baby blues peering at him from the crack in the bathroom door.

He spits into the sink. “Uh. Do you need something?”

Javi nudges the door open a little wider, but says nothing. He’s the spitting image of Lance except much smaller, with angled elbows and gangly limbs like a fledgling bird. He cracks a tiny smile, revealing two missing front teeth, and slides into the room.

“I heard you guys are gonna get ice cream.”  
  
Keith stares at him in the mirror. “Where’d you hear that?” As far as he knew, there hadn’t been anyone else up. The house had been near silent all morning, save for the sprinkler sputtering and the twins fighting over a cereal box. “Did Lance tell you?”

Javi snickers, eyes crinkling up at the corners. “No,” he giggles, dragging out the _o._ “But I heard you. We both did.”

“We?”

“Nina says it’s a _date_ , so we shouldn’t bother you guys, but if you’re _really_ going to get ice cream then shouldn’t we come along too? Cause it’s summer, and Mamá hasn’t got us paletas in almost _two weeks_ , and I think—”

“You want to come along?” Keith looks at him in the mirror. He’s _not_ going to acknowledge that comment about it being a date. Javi wiggles shyly, tugging on a cowlick.

“Maaybe.” He tilts his head to one side. “Can we?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“We’re not gonna be in the way of your date! Promise!” Javi grins, showing off the open gaps in his smile. He runs from the bathroom before Keith can even think to contradict him.

 ***

Wednesday is the warmest day yet. Keith doesn’t know too much about weather, but he’s pretty sure that with how humid it is, he’s going to be swimming pretty soon. The air is startlingly thick outside, a sharp, stuffy contrast to the cool interior of Lance’s home. They’ve been walking for only a few blocks and Keith is already regretting wearing pants; the fabric sticks to the backs of his knees, and feels way too tight and warm all the way from hip to ankle. He should have just taken the shorts like Maria insisted the night prior.

The heat doesn’t bug the twins. They bounce from point to point, plucking a wildflower here, leaping over a crack in the pavement there. The idea of ice cream excites them even more than Keith thought it would. Nina had squealed for nearly a minute when Javi told her.

“I don’t know where they get all this energy,” Lance sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. He looks good, with the way his hair sticks lightly to his temples and his tank top bares his long, brown arms. “I’m ready to find some AC, stat.”  
  
“You’re just getting old,” Keith smirks. “First it’s the heat. Then you’ll be complaining about everything — oh wait, you already do that.”

“Oh look, the pot calling the kettle black.” Lance wrinkles his nose. “And it’s not _complaining_ . I’m just giving my opinion about things that bug me.”  
“I’m pretty sure that’s called complaining.”  
  
“Well _I’m_ pretty sure you’re a grade A buttmuncher—”  
  
“Lance!” Nina shrieks, swinging in a wide circle. Her sundress billows around her knees. “Look what we’ve got!”

Keith doesn’t see exactly what _it_ is until Nina is in front of them, laughing with her hands outstretched. They’re flowers, full and white.

“You didn’t pick those from Lupe’s yard, did you?” Lance frowns but takes one from her anyway, tucking it behind his ear.

Nina shakes her head, handing the other two flowers to Keith. “Lupe hasn’t lived on this street in over a year,” she says, smoothing her palms over her fluttering skirt. “The flowers just grow now. See?” She points back behind her to where Javi kneels in the grass.

“Where’d she go?”

“Havana,” Javi says. He doesn’t bother looking up from where a snail is crawling up his hand. “She left right after—”

The four of them are still. Keith can see the way Javi’s mouth curls sour, twisting around his last words. Beside him Nina is suddenly quiet, studiously re-planting one plucked flower. Neither of them look at Lance.

“Oh,” Lance breathes. He looks away from them all, staring out at the open street. Somewhere a dog is barking. “Okay.”

Keith stares down at the flowers in his hand. One of them is missing two tiny petals, leaving an odd gap in the even symmetry.

“Hey,” he hears himself saying. The words tremble the slightest, but he coughs and pushes through. “Javi. What kind of ice cream did you say you wanted? I forgot.”

“Mango,” Javi replies immediately. He stands up, rubbing caked dirt off one kneecap. His other hand is still occupied with the snail. “Or chocolate? Maybe strawberry. Oh! Or bubblegum, or—”  
  
“Fresa!” Nina squeals. She rubs soil on the hips of her dress, staining the yellow fabric brown. “I can’t believe you forgot _fresa._ Didn’t you say it was your favorite?”

“That was last week,” Javi huffs. He steps back onto the sidewalk, snail in tow. “This week it’s mango. I think.”

The two begin to bicker, shrill voices overlapping. Keith peeks a glance at Lance. His face is carefully blank, still staring at that empty house.

“Lance,” Keith murmurs. Lance doesn’t move. “Lance?”

Lance blinks once, twice. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Just..” He wavers in place for a moment, fingers brushing the flower behind his ear.

“Come on.” It feels natural, taking his hand. Keith tries not to think too hard about the way Lance’s fingers are longer than his, or how smooth his palm feels. His skin is clammy and cold against Keith’s own, fingertips shaking the faintest bit. “Let’s go. Okay?”

Lance stares at him, expression unreadable, but doesn’t move to pull away. “Okay,” he whispers. “Yeah. Okay.”

They make the rest of the walk slowly, skirting all the cracks in the sidewalk. The twins don’t stop to pick any more flowers. The sun continues its dance, in and out, in and out, all the way to the heladeria.

 ***

“You have _horchata_ flavored ice cream?”

“No, it’s arroz con leche,” Lance says, pulling the popsicle out of the cooler. “See? It’s got bits of rice in it. It tastes like horchata, though.”  
Keith wrinkles his nose. “What’s the difference? And what’s —” he pauses, squinting at the label, “..caca.. hoo-ate?”

“Cachuate. It’s peanut flavor.” Lance has already moved to the either side of the icebox, rummaging through stacks of popsicles that all look vaguely the same, despite their varied labels. “Let me know if you see pitaya, would you? That’s mom’s favorite.” He nudges aside a few pink popsicles and frowns. “They’re all out of fresas con crema. Shit.”

“Can I just have, I don’t know, a normal flavor? I can’t read any of these.” Keith sighs. When they had walked into the ice cream shop (which, Keith learned, was less of a sweet shop and more of a general quick-mart full of junk food) the three siblings had gone straight for the back. They walked past the rows of packaged cakes and bagged chips, sidestepped the familiar American sweets, and went for a huge, nondescript ice box full of popsicles.

“Here.” Lance nudges him with a red popsicle. “It’s cherry. You _will_ eat cherry, right?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Keith scratches the ice from the wrapper, watching Lance go about his digging. “What are you looking for anyway? I thought you already decided on raspberry.” He doesn’t miss the way Lance stops suddenly, hands frozen around a chunk of paletas de mango.  
  
“Mango is Tony’s favorite,” is all he murmurs, before the icebox snaps shut. The pile of paletas between them costs a crisp bill, and one by one they disappear into a plastic carrying bag: strawberry, cookies and cream, cherry, raspberry, dragonfruit, mango.

They walk the last few blocks to a small beach before they untie the bag. Nina and Javi tear into their ice cream with all the savagery of small, wild beasts; as Keith watches, Nina bares her teeth and rips a frozen strawberry right out of the top of her popsicle. “What about the others? Is it ok if they melt?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“They always freeze back up,” Javi mumbles around his paleta. The way he gnaws on it, his front teeth missing, reminds Keith of an old dog that one of his families used to own. All gums and no bite.

The cloud cover has steadily rolled in while they were in the market, and the sky is now a bright silvery-grey, murky and flat. The open ocean mirrors it almost perfectly. Still, most of the exposed sand is hot; they decide to stay along the tree line, toes digging into cooler earth while fingers tore wet plastic from cold sweets.

Keith finds himself nudged up to Lance’s side again, thighs brushing when either of them stirs to dig in the sand. The flower behind Lance’s ear is big enough that it tickles the side of Keith’s face; feather-light and velvety, it reminds him how close they’re standing. All he’d have to do was turn his head left, and if Lance turned right.. Well.

“It looks like it’s gonna rain,” Lance says wistfully. He leans ever so gently into Keith’s side, nudging his shoulder. “Can you believe it? Real, honest-to-God rain.” His face splits into a wide, toothy grin. “If I do a rain-dance, will you do it with me?”

“I will! I will!” Javi hops up and down, paleta pinched precariously between three fingers. Nina nods furiously around a mouthful of ice cream. “We’ll have a big ol’ rain dance! Just like we used to, right?”

“Right.” Lance tips his head back, peering up at the clouds. “Just like we used to.”

They’re quiet for a little while, tearing into their paletas. Keith marvels at how sugary sweet his is, tongue tingling when he goes for a bite. It tastes like a cherry jolly-rancher and drips bright little droplets into the sand. By the time he’s finished, several of his fingertips are stained red; he imagines his mouth is probably the same.

Lance’s lips are red-purple. Keith lowers his lashes, pretends to be thinking and staring off into the sand, turning just enough to keep watching Lance’s face as it changes in the silence. He watches as Lance worries his bottom lip between juice-stained teeth, quietly observes the steady crease between his eyes as it deepens into a sharp furrow; his mouth pulls down at the corners ever so slightly, the skin at the corners of his eyes pinching up the way it always does when he’s thinking too hard about something.

“What are you thinking about?” Keith asks, keeping his voice soft and low. Lance pauses in his chewing, letting his bottom lip slide out, worried and red. He doesn’t look at Keith but stares past at the oceanfront. Javi and Nina have finished their paletas already, abandoning them in the closest garbage can to run at the waterline. He can see their reflections in Lance’s eyes, the way his icy blue irises follow the shifts in their movement as they run the span of the beach. “You’ll get wrinkles making a face like that, you know.”

“Things have changed so much,” Lance whispers. He runs one hand over the wilting bloom behind his ear and a single petal breaks from the rest, falling free into his hand. “It might not be much, but I can tell. Javi and Nina are different.” He stares at the velvety petal. “They all are. Everything is.”

“Is that bad?”

“Does it matter?” His voice is so quiet, barely audible over the crashing waves, but Keith knows how much it hurts. He can see it in the tiny trembles, the subtle shyness from reaching out to touch the others; he can hear it, now, in the way Lance’s voice crumbles ever so slightly. “Whether I like it or not, this is the way things are now.”

Keith frowns. “You mean Tony.” Lance’s shoulders slump in defeat, dropping the loose petal. “Lance. You aren’t just thinking of giving up, are you?” He was stronger than that. Keith _knew_ he was.

“You saw the way he looked at me. He doesn’t..” Lance’s brow furrows even further, eyebrows drawing up and together. “He doesn’t forgive me. For leaving. And how can I blame him? After everything we’ve gone through?” He suddenly turns, facing Keith head-on. “Did you know? That my dad is dead?”

“I figured,” Keith murmurs. The signs were there in the photos, always full of just five; in the empty, extra chair at the dinner table with no placemat; in the utter lack of mention to any man aside from Lance or Tony ever entering the house. Nobody ever spoke of the ghost space, the shadow that preceded conversation and floated after communal silence, but Keith felt it. He felt it at the table that first night, and every night afterwards when dinner was over.

“He died right after the twins were born. Went up into space on a mission to the second Mars station, but there was a mistake— they had miscalculated how soon the protective panels needed to be replaced. And so, when the shuttle went up into the atmosphere, he just..” Lance pauses, licking his lips. His eyes are glassy, staring out at something Keith can’t see. “Tony’s only a year older than me so we shared the load. Two men of the house, I guess. But then when I said I wanted to follow dad’s footsteps and go into space..”  
  
“..He didn’t want you to go, did he.”

“No. Of course not.” Lance shakes his head. “He was angry at me for weeks, said I was abandoning everybody. But Mamá told me I should still go. She understood.” He reaches out, tentatively runs one finger across the uneven petals of Keith’s flower. His face goes hard. “And then I went and disappointed them all anyway.” He drops his hand.

“I don’t think you’re disappointing anyone,” Keith says. He reaches out, brushing his hand against Lance’s. “Did you forget or something? You’re a _defender of the universe.”_

“I left the Garrison. I don’t even have a proper pilot license.”  
  
“So?” Keith retorts. “I don’t either. Hell, I _dropped out._ You, at least, didn’t have a choice.” He trails his fingers over Lance’s knuckles. “You’re the blue paladin, Lance. I’d say that’s a hell of a lot more impressive than some piece of paper.”

“Tony doesn’t think so.”  
  
“Yeah, well. Tony hasn’t gone into space, has he? Has Tony fought entire Galra fleets and taken them out?” Keith bumps Lance’s thumb with his own. “Has Tony protected hundreds of alien races and planets from destruction? Has Tony flown across the universe?”

One corner of Lance’s mouth quirks up. “He’s afraid of flying, actually. Fear of heights.”

“There, see? He doesn’t know what he’s missing.” Keith swallows, extending his fingers just enough to line up with Lance’s. They’re almost holding hands. “He doesn’t know how much you deserve,” he murmurs. “You’re really great, Lance. I don’t think you’ve disappointed anybody.”

The way Lance’s cheeks flush, warm color blooming at the surface of his freckled cheeks and across his nose, makes Keith’s heart flutter dangerously. He can feel it swelling in his chest as Lance’s mouth finally relaxes and curves all the way, eyes taking on a soft, peaceful glow, and suddenly he wants to tell Lance _more._ He wants him to look like that all the time. He wants him to be _happy._

The idea is not new to Keith, not in the slightest, but the enormity of all that compassion at once, huge and full in his chest, is startling, pleasantly suffocating. Keith swallows again, marveling at how his own heartbeat seems to flutter just a bit faster at the brush of Lance’s fingers. He wants to hold his hand _so_ badly.

“Keith?” Lance’s voice is low, smooth as velvet. He slides one finger past Keith’s own, hooking around it. They’re holding index fingers. Keith can feel his heart continue to flutter like a trapped bird, stuttering into the space in his throat. What would happen if he just leaned in a little more?

“Yeah?” His voice barely squeaks out.

“Thank you.” He’s warm, Keith can feel it from where he’s standing, their chests nearly brushing. “Really. I..” He wets his lips and Keith can’t help but follow the movement with his eyes. He flushes, looking back up, but it’s too late. Lance has seen, Keith _knows_ he’s seen, because he’s absolutely pink and wide-eyed, and the way he bashfully smiles is too much for Keith. “I never thought I’d actually say this, but you’re—”

_Boom._

Keith can taste the exact moment the sky opens up because suddenly the rain is _everywhere._ The tap is turned on all at once, sending down a solid sheet of water that blankets everyone and everything in an instant. Nina and Javi are shrieking now, laughing and twirling in the heavy downpour. The rain is blindingly thick, endless assailing drops that soak Keith’s shirt to his skin in an instant and run rivulets down his face. He can taste the familiar freshness, earthy and curiously sweet. _Rain._

Lance laughs, tipping his head back towards the sky. His eyes are closed, dark lashes stuck together, hair curling across his forehead and sticking to the sides of his face. His laughter is low and warm, all the way from the bottom of his stomach, and the music of it makes Keith smile helplessly. He hasn’t heard Lance laugh like that in _months._

And then Lance is taking him by the hand,  _both_ hands, and they spin, round and round, fumbling through the sand as it begins to turn thick with moisture. There doesn’t seem to be rhyme or rhythm to the movements; Lance hops this way and that, guiding Keith along with him. He can hear Nina and Javi nearby, just beyond Keith’s peripheral, laughing and squealing in the same way. They’re dizzy, breathless and elated, twirling through the rain.

Keith doesn’t know if it’s him or Lance that finally trips. They go down into the sand with hands still tightly clasped. He’s sideways on the ground, clothes already chafing as the sand sticks everywhere, but it’s okay. Everything is okay because Lance is laughing again, flushed red and panting like he can’t stop himself from the movements. Keith lays in the sand quietly, catching his breath, and watches as Lance slows his breathing and cracks open his eyes.

They’re red. His eyelashes are wet from the rain, but Keith sees how his bottom lip trembles. The tears leak out at the corners and mingle with fat raindrops, sliding down his face, and he shudders, low stuttering breaths. Keith squeezes his hands tight.

The heavens are open, spilling life and renewal into the soil, across the ocean, mixing fresh water with the heavy brine and saline of the Caribbean.

Keith lays there, never looking away, and lets Lance cry.

 ***

Things are different now. He can’t put his finger on exactly _what_ is different, but the way Keith feels when Lance looks at him is.. softer. Quiet, and warm. They hold hands the whole way home from the beach despite the rain, and take turns in the guest bathroom’s shower while Nina and Javi use the other bathtub. The folded clothes left on the counter are warm and feel worn in; as Keith slips the old swim shirt over his head, he realizes there’s a name written in Sharpie on the shirt tag. _Lance._

Keith stares at his reflection, scrubbed pink and raw. Of course these have been Lance’s clothes the whole time — he sees, now, how the shirt hangs long on his torso, and the shorts fit tight around his hips. Lance is a damn beanpole, and there’s no way Tony would let him wear his clothes. Who else’s things would he wear?

_You’re also wearing his boxers,_ a tiny part of him hisses. _Lance’s underwear._

No, _no._ Keith slaps his hands over his cheeks. He’s _not_ going to think about that right now. Not after everything else today.

He pads out quietly into the guest bedroom. Lance is flopped back on the bed, eyes closed, with his arms crossed behind his head. His chest is rising and falling so slowly that he might be asleep, if not for the way one foot wiggles back and forth over the edge of the bed.

“Nina says Tony’s gonna be home early,” he murmurs. He opens his eyes when Keith hops onto the bed, blinking up at him. The shadows beneath his lashes have faded, but Keith can still see traces of bruising — traces of who they are, beyond Earth.  
  
“You gonna try to talk to him?”

“Yeah.” Lance sighs deeply. “Now or never.” They both sit in silence, soaking in the quiet. Outside the rain falls in a steady background hum, drizzling the windows in streaks that glint against the streetlights.

“Shiro sent me a message, earlier,” Keith admits. He plays with the folds of the quilt, admiring the tiny stitches along the hem. “Wanted to know how we’re doing.”

“What’d you say?”

“Nothing.” Lance tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. “I just.. wasn’t in the mood to talk,” Keith mutters. “I don’t even remember the time differences anymore. I could have woken him up.”  
  
“It’s not like Shiro sleeps anyway,” Lance jokes. “He might be up even more than you.”  
  
“There’s _things_ to do on ship, not that a lazy lump like you would understand.”

“Keith, _please_.” Lance rolls his eyes. “As if keeping my skin young and elastic isn’t important. You’ll give yourself premature wrinkles, the way you fuss over everything all the time.”

“I don’t care.”  
  
“You will in ten years!” He sits up suddenly, hair sticking out the back like a duck’s butt. “And I’ll have to look at you while you’re all old and ugly, and it’ll be awful, and—”

“You think we’ll still be together in ten years?” Keith asks, hands going still around the blanket. Lance goes quiet, biting his lip.

“Well yeah. Why wouldn’t we?” He rolls over on his side, tucking his knees up towards his belly. “We’re bonded for life.”

Keith can feel himself flushing as he flops on his side to face him. It’s eerily similar to the beach trip earlier, damp hair and all. They’re both breathing a little too loud for just laying still, and Keith can tell that Lance isn’t just pink from his own bath.

Up close, Lance’s eyes are more than just blue. There’s thin rings of grey near the pupil, concentric and hypnotizing, and Keith can see the soft threads of dark grey and blue that weave over lighter, sky colors.

“Hey, Lance.”  
  
“Yeah?”

“Thank you for letting me stay.”

Lance smiles then, soft and sweet, and his eyes light up in this way that makes Keith’s heart hammer painfully behind his ribs. He’s beautiful.

“Of course,” he murmurs. One hand crawls out between them, brushing a stray lock from Keith’s eyes. “I wasn’t just gonna let you hang out in a hotel for a week.”  
Keith can’t help but giggle. “Is that what you think I’d do?”

“Keith, babe, I _know_ that’s what you’d do.” Lance snorts, rolling his eyes, but Keith is still stuck on that tiny word. _Babe._ “You don’t want to burden anybody. You’d probably rather die than ask for a favor.”

“That’s not true,” Keith argues, scowling through his blush. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“After my mom begged you to stay!”

“Well, it’s not like I’m gonna _ask_ to be here, after how long you guys have been separated—”  
  
“ _Keith._ ” Lance scrunches his nose, jabbing one foot at his calf. “Don’t be stupid. _Really._ I’m happy you’re here. I wanted you to be here.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“It’s fine. Really.” He smiles again, sweet as sugar, and Keith feels his guts positively melt. He smiles shyly back, reveling in that quiet, bubbling warmth in his stomach.

_“Lance! Mom needs you!”_ Nina squeals from somewhere down the hall.

“Coming!” Lance calls, turning towards the door to shout. He flops onto his back, sticking his feet into the air. “Yeesh. I chill for ten minutes and suddenly everybody wants my attention.”

“You’re popular,” Keith mumbles, still smiling. Lance snorts, rolling towards the edge of the bed. His hair is an absolute mess on all sides, poking out in all directions, and it’s really going to give Keith heartburn or something.

He lays on his side and watches Lance stand, smoothing the wrinkles out of his faded Beyonce shirt. The proper light in the hallway casts half his body in its buttery glow, outlining long, delicate fingers and one angular shoulder. And then, as Keith lays there, Lance looks over his shoulder and winks.

“Your turn to set the table.” He drifts out and away, shadow sliding long over the photos in the hall.

Keith lets himself lay there a little while longer, listening to the stove’s hiss and the clink of faraway dishes. Maria has some sort of timba on, thumping a festive beat over the din of her children arguing with each other. It sounds cozy, like a real family —  Keith’s heart _aches._

He’s always wanted to be in space. It’s been his dream since he was old enough to look up at that huge canvas of stars, realizing it was someplace he could go. He wouldn’t have it any other way. He loves shooting past planets, reaching alien lives, brushing his hands against the dust of faraway solar systems. It’s a dream come true.

Why, then, does he suddenly feel like this week on Earth is going by too quickly?

When he finally summons the strength to pad out into the living room, he’s greeted by Javi sitting in front of the TV. Javi’s got a huge bowl in front of him full of leaves, and as Keith watches, he pulls a piece of corn from a plastic bag and shucks it in several fluid motions. He’s not even looking at his hands.

“Oh, good,” he says, not breaking his gaze from the screen. “Mamá was hoping you could stir the beans.”

“Me?” Keith raises an eyebrow.

“Well, sure.” Javi shucks another ear of corn, plopping the bare starch back into the bag. “You’re family, aren’t ya?”

Keith doesn’t have anything to say to that. He bites his lip, quelling the sick fluttering that’s been happening _way_ too much in the past few hours, and moves past the couch into the kitchen.

The music is blasting from an old speaker, propped precariously on top of a fruit bowl. Maria sways her hips as she cuts bell pepper, singing along in a low, raspy croon. Lance is twirling dramatically with a wooden cooking spoon, making wild gestures to the beat. His singing voice is surprisingly low too, sliding along with his mother’s. They make a charming picture; Keith almost doesn’t want to come in.

“Keith!” Maria smiles, catching him hovering. She gestures him in with the knife, using it to point to the stove. “The beans have been soaking, but you need to cook some onion in the pot first. Is that alright?”

“Of course. Anything is fine.” _Anything for you guys._

Maria slides him a lump of diced onion on her cutting board, plopping it into the pot with a loud _hiss._ She hands him another wooden spoon so he can stir it around. The tiny white chunks brown slowly at the edges, sliding through bubbling oil. One by one, garlic, spices, and the beans go in, with broth broiling over the mix. Keith stares down into the pot until the heat makes sweat bead on his forehead. He’s never actually helped cook a meal like this before.

“Don’t cook much?” Maria asks, eyes crinkling. She cuts tomatoes with a speed that Keith’s only seen on competitive cooking shows.

“No,” Keith says. “I didn’t before we left, not really. And once we went up.. Well.”

“If I have another plate of space goo, it’ll be too soon.” Lause sighs. “God bless Hunk, but Earth food is going to ruin me. I won’t be able to take it, going back into space.”

There’s a long moment of uncomfortable silence. The timba thumps from its speakers.

“A week doesn’t feel like enough,” Maria sighs. Her hands shake enough to force her to put down the knife. “ _Mijo._ How can I let you go when you’ve barely gotten back? You haven’t even seen your abuelos yet.”  
  
“We have to go, Mamá.” Lance’s voice barely carries over the music. “To.. clean up the rest.” His hands tremble in his apron, wrinkling where he clenches the fabric. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Maria moves across the kitchen in an instant, wrapping Lance in a big hug. “I understand. Just promise you’ll come back sooner this time.”  
  
“I promise.”

“And you.” Keith looks up, meeting Maria’s gaze. Her eyes are shining but she stares firmly. “You have to promise too. I won’t let either of you go so long without home cooking ever again.”

Keith blinks. “I promise,” he mumbles.

“Good.” She smiles tiredly. “Good.”

Dinner is a process, Keith learns. He watches Maria and Lance as they chop and knead and stir, helping wherever he knows he can. In goes the corn that Javi shucked, the meat that Lance ground with his hands and browned in a pan. Nina comes home from the neighbor’s with a plastic bag full of fresh tortillas. The air is full of savory smells and salsa music, warm and full in a way that somehow makes Keith even hungrier.

And then, when the table is all set and the food is being set out, the front door clicks open.

“Tony!” Javi slides across the wood floors in his socks, narrowly missing the table’s sharp corners. “You’re just in time for dinner!”

“Am I?” Tony’s voice sounds alien, low and smooth. He sounds very different from the way Keith had last heard him. Not yelling will do that, he supposes.

There’s the sound of scuffling, shoes popping off. Keith can imagine him taking off his jacket, hanging it on the coatrack Maria strictly enforces, sliding his shoes into the long line where they all keep theirs. The moment is tense, hearing his footsteps echo closer and closer.

“Keith,” Lance whispers. He looks nervous as hell, sliding his hand under the table to squeeze Keith’s right hand.

“You’ve got this,” he whispers back. Maria is giving them that knowing look again.

When Tony walks into the dining room and sees them all seated at the table, he comes up short to the edge of the table. He stares at Lance and Keith, sitting side by side. They stare back.

The pouring rain has soaked Tony’s white button-down to skin underneath, clinging to his undershirt and the sharp cut of shoulders. His hair, shorter than Lance’s, sticks up and clings to his face. Rumpled and wet, Tony doesn’t look so imposing and old. If anything he just looks _small_ now — Keith can see how tired he is, but Tony doesn’t look any older than either of them. Just exhausted.

“Boss let me off early,” he mutters, eyes flickering to Maria. “Figured the rain would stop any customers from making a visit to the wharf.”

“And you forgot your rain jacket.” Her lips curve up, gesturing to his wet clothes.  
  
“I didn’t think it would rain so soon, Mamá.” He hunches his shoulders sheepishly. “I’ll change right now.”  
  
“Be quick, _mijo_. We’ll wait for you.”

Tony’s eyes flicker between them all as if he’d like to disagree but he holds his tongue. He wavers in the doorway for a moment longer and then ducks out, footsteps fading towards the bathroom. Lance’s breath _whooshes_ out the second the bathroom door slams shut.

“He’s willing to try, I think,” Maria says. She twirls a spoon around in her jamaica iced tea. “The last few days have been good for him.”

“Yeah,” Lance sighs. He rubs his hands up and down his thighs, chewing on his lip. “Yeah. I’ll ease him into it.”

Dinner is a quiet affair. Maria does her best to talk over the awkward silence, asking Tony about his work day and the twins about their day out. Nina and Javi have no problem chattering away, describing paletas and the beach with details Keith hadn’t even noticed. Lance is oddly quiet, eating at a steady, unnatural pace. They all let him be, though Maria does try to make him eat thirds.

“You’ve gotten so skinny,” she scolds them, pushing more food onto their plates. “If I can’t watch what you eat in space, then you have to fatten up while you’re back, alright?”

“Yes Mamá,” Lance says, smiling helplessly. Tony stares at his emptied bowl.

Keith eats and eats, savoring flavor and warmth on his unused palette. He had forgotten how much he’d loved spicy food before they left. Everything tastes like the best thing ever.

Maria blushes when he tells her as much, waving off his compliment with one hand while she stacks their used dishes with the other. “I don’t know about that, _mijo._ I just cook the way my abuela taught me.”  
  
“It’s wonderful,” Keith insists. “I’ve never had food this good in my life.”

“Never?” Nina echoes, stacking cups. “Not even when you were in space?”

“Especially then,” Lance chuckles. He bumps Keith with one hip, and they share a smile. Keith’s heart does that weak fluttery thing again.

“Well.” Maria grins, flashing white, even teeth. “You’re always welcome to come back, Keith. When you and Lance come home again, be sure to stay here. We’ll always have an open room.” She props the plates on one hip, moving into the kitchen. Tony follows Maria into the kitchen quietly, cutlery clenched in his hands.

Only when the kitchen table is all cleared, Maria shooing Nina and Javi off to get ready for bed, does the silence begin to weigh them down. Lance scrubs the dishes with a single-minded focus Keith knows is just his anxiety, hands furiously rubbing away at a sticky spot. Tony hovers around the kitchen island uncertainly, cleaner and rag in hand. His face is all twisted up like he’s sucking on a lemon. Keith feels the itch to bolt.

He dries the dishes Lance passes him and does his best to ignore Tony. It’s nearly impossible to do so — his footsteps, his breathing, his angry sighs too loud in the empty kitchen. Keith gets through four plates and a set of small bowls before he’s ready to snap. The tension is killing them, for god’s sake.

Tony sighs loudly for the fourth time, and Keith smacks the cloth on the counter.

“Listen—”

“I was wondering—”

They stare at each other. Tony’s hands are wringing the cleaning rag like he might rip it apart with his bare hands. He looks a little sick.

“Yes?” Keith raises an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“I was just wondering.” Tony sucks in a long breath. “About you guys being in space.”

Lance’s hands slow around a saucepan. “Yeah?” he breathes.

“How did you do it?” Tony frowns, setting down the rag. “I don’t mean the whole mech thing.”  
  
“Then what _do_ you mean?” Keith leans against the counter. His thigh brushes Lance’s, giving them both the tiniest point of contact. He can feel Lance’s leg shaking ever so slightly.

“You said you were fighting for months. How did you get up every day?” Tony chews his cheek. “Did you guys even _have_ days?”

Keith stares at the floor. Is it his place to answer? He can feel Lance’s uncertainty beside him, wavering between answering and turning away, but he _wants_ this. He knows Lance does.  
  
Nobody should have to be without their family, even for a second. Keith would know.

“No,” Keith says. Lance puts down the sponge. “Well, we did at first. But then it was too hard to keep the pattern, so we just..” He slides closer to Lance, lining up their legs. _Come on,_ Lance.

“Pidge made an Earth clock.” Lance looks surprised by his own voice. He takes a quick, shuddering breath, and turns around to lean against the counter too. His whole side burns against Keith’s. “We followed that for a while.”

“And then?”

Lance’s mouth quirks up at one side. “We learned to sleep when there was time.”  
  
Tony’s gaze flickers between them. “I know you didn’t tell mom everything,” he admits quietly. “It seemed too easy, the way you guys talked about it. But I can tell.” He frowns. “Didn’t you ever want to give up?”

“What, and let everybody suffer?” Lance leans into Keith’s side as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Never. I knew what I had to lose.”

“We both did,” Keith nods. “We saw what happened to people who gave in.” Countless races. Countless planets. Countless face and names they learned and lost, sometimes in the same sentence. “We couldn’t let it happen anymore.”

“It never got easier.” Lance sighs. His weight is all on Keith now, head resting against his shoulder. Keith leans in, letting his cheek brush Lance’s hair. Their pinkies brush on the sink’s edge. “Not even at the very end.” He huffs out a laugh; Keith can feel it ripple through his torso. “But whenever we got tired, Allura was always there to kick our asses. And _Shiro._ If anybody was gonna convince me to jump several black holes, it would be him.” He pauses, licking his lips. “Keith too.”

“Me?” Keith feigns surprise, but he can’t help but smile. His heart thumps painfully. “I’m just doing my job.”  
“Yeah, right. Since when is being a pain-in-the-ass part of your job description?”

“Since when is it _yours?_ At least I didn’t get myself tied to a tree, _three times._ ” He pokes the top of Lance’s head, unable to bite back the way his smile makes his cheeks ache.

“It was only my fault maybe the first time, come on Keith—”

“So, wait.” Tony tilts his head to one side, peering at the two of them. He seems to be on the verge of smiling; Keith can hear the way his voice lilts, not unlike Lance’s before he drops a pun. “When did you have time to be a thing in space?”

“A thing?” Keith echoes. Lance freezes beside him, fingers twitching where they overlap.

“You know. Together.” Tony pauses, absorbing the way both of their faces flush and their bodies slide to make room between them. “Hold on. Are.. you not? Mom told me you were—”

“Mamá?” Lance cries out, hands flying to his hair. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s rubbing soap suds into his scalp. “ _Mamá_ told you?”

“We’re not— um, that’s—” Why can’t Keith speak? His tongue is suddenly too heavy in his mouth. He can feel the telltale heat on his face, searing down into the neck of his shirt like a brand. God. Did everyone think they were dating?

_Then what are you?_ The little voice in his head whispers. _What is it?_

Keith realizes he doesn’t know.

“Well you fooled me.” Tony barrels on, oblivious to their meltdown. “I figured it would be easy that way, since you don’t have too many people in space, and all.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Lance mutters. He looks positively pink. “Not too many aliens are into humans, believe it or not.”

Tony’s mouth twitches, curving upwards on one side. “I can believe it. Especially if you’re the only one they get a load of.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Tony arches an eyebrow. “Nothing really, except that you’re a poor representation of the rest of us.”  
  
“ _Hey!_ ” Lance squawks. He throws up his arms, waving them about like wet noodles, but Keith isn’t fooled. The way Lance’s eyes crinkle like he’s smiling says everything.

Keith leans back on his arms and lets their chatter wash over him. The sink starts up again, dishes slopping water here and there as Lance attempts to keep up his mock argument and wash at the same time. Somewhere in the house, the timba starts up again at a lower volume.

The sheer domesticity of it all should shock him. A few years back and it definitely would have. Nobody ever wanted Keith to help make dinner, or coffee in the morning, or help dry the dishes. He was called for meals and report cards, moved from house to house like a mailed letter. He had been utterly alone.

The kitchen is warm, heavy with leftover smells and the sharp lemon of all-purpose cleaner. Maria has lit several candles, their flickering light matching the dimmer overhead bulbs like tiny fireflies. The woven rug tickles Keith’s feet and Lance squirms beside him, rucking it up wildly over the tiles.

He leans his head back against the cupboard and looks up. The night sky peeks through the skylight, a perfect square of inky darkness that the crescent moon gleams through. It’s too bright to see anything but that sliver. A shard of light in the dark.

There are billions of stars, planets and peoples Keith has seen and more that he hasn’t —  but here, tucked away in Varadero, he can almost believe there’s nothing else past that window. Just a picture, perfect and crisp, of the waning moon.

 ***

The week is almost over.

There’s no denying it. Not when Keith’s tablet blinks the time and date every morning, or when he walks into the kitchen and stares at that calendar taped to the fridge. Thursday’s shadow brings Friday, then Saturday — the day of departure.

Maria moves around the house as calm as always. She doesn’t blink when she checks the morning weather; she doesn’t crack when she closes the fridge and stares at that weekly planner, framed and numbered, stuck right above the twin’s report cards. Thursday stares back.

Keith sits at the kitchen island and cracks eggs. They’re making pancakes for breakfast.

“How many did you say?” He doesn’t look up from the bowl, making sure to whisk the yolks just right. “Two?”

“Three, _mijo_. You boys eat a lot, and Javi loves to snack on them later.” Maria carefully pours creamer into four steaming mugs. The kitchen already smells like coffee and sugar, a magical touch the woman seems to bring whenever she steps into the room. Keith doesn’t know how she does it. If only he could bottle the smell and bring it with him to space.

“Tell you what,” Maria says, nudging two mugs across the kitchen island. “How about you go wake up Lance? I’ll take over from here.”

“Are you sure?” Keith asks, but takes the mugs on reflex. “You don’t need me to mix the batter?”

Maria smiles, ruffling his hair. “You can help flip them. I think Lance needs his coffee more right now.” She nudges him out into the hallway. The daily cooking timba starts up.

For all the times Keith has had to pass Lance’s room on his way to the kitchen, none of it prepares him to knock. To go in without Lance’s permission, while he’s _sleeping._ He spends way too long standing there with a mug in each hand, wondering how he’s going to approach this. Does he knock? Would Lance even hear him if he did? Is he _supposed to just go inside?_

This shouldn’t be such a big deal. God knows Keith wouldn’t have cared about something like this even a week or two ago; what sort of boundaries are you supposed to have in space?

_You’re being dumb_ , he scolds himself. _All you have to do is knock. Just.._

He counts to twenty-seven before he knocks twice, surprising himself. Nothing happens. He knocks again.

“Uh, Lance?” He shifts awkwardly, leaning one ear against the door. “I’ve got coffee. You up or not?”

No answer.

“A-alright,” he mutters. “If you aren’t gonna answer, I’m coming in.”

The blinds are drawn, light slipping through the curtain edges to pool over the desk. It’s not much — the sun gave up on burning the clouds away today — but there’s just enough glow for Keith to make out the shape of furniture. He’s careful to skirt the sharp corners of the bedpost, stepping over an abandoned heap of dirty clothes. They’ve only been back on Earth for four days but Lance’s room is messy and smells soft; it’s as if the room was never empty, overflowing with his existence.

Keith has to nudge aside two older dishes to make room for the mugs on Lance’s bedside table. He hangs there for a moment, breathing in the quiet air. Lance is still under the sheets, chest rising and falling slowly. The way he sleeps, arms and legs stretched out like a starfish, reminds Keith of someone trying to sunbathe.

“Lance?” He whispers. Hesitantly, he reaches out and nudges his shoulder. Even through the sheet he can feel how warm Lance’s skin is. “C’mon. Get up.”

Lance’s brow twitches, wrinkling at Keith’s touch. He sucks in a big, long breath, letting it whistle noisily out his nose. And then, he cracks open his eyes.

Keith has to take a breath of his own. Despite the heavy shadows in the room, or maybe because of them, Lance’s eyes reflect all the grey light from the windows. He blinks slowly — once, twice — and Keith stares, transfixed, as pupils dilate and focus on him. How are his eyes so _blue?_

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Lance croaks. He blinks again, rubbing the sleep from one eye, and sits up. “What are you doing in here?”

“Maria told me to come wake you up,” Keith mumbles. He feels weird standing over Lance like some sort of a creep so he flops onto the foot of the bed. “We’re having pancakes.”

“What, I don’t get the pancakes in bed too?” Lance waggles his eyebrows.

“No.” Keith rolls his eyes and kicks Lance in the shin. It’s a good thing it’s really dark in here; his face is already getting warm, and Lance hasn’t even been awake for five minutes. He’s going to be permanently red at this rate.

They sit in the dark for a few seconds, letting the silence stretch between them. _It’s nice_ , he thinks. He’s content to lay there, wedged between Lance’s feet and the bedpost, tracing the outlines of plastic stars on the ceiling. The sheets are just as soft and heavily scented as the guest bed.

Keith rolls over on his side to stare up the bed. Lance has propped himself up with three (who even has more than two?) pillows, letting the sheet pool around his waist. He tips back his mug with a soft sigh.

“If there was one thing you could take back to space with you, what would it be?” Keith asks, watching his Adam’s apple bob. “One thing.” He imagines easy things, like their coffee or the little air fresheners his mom pops in every electric socket. Maybe some seashells.

Lance blinks at him over the brim of his mug, exhaling a cloud of steam. “My photo collection,” he says without hesitation.

“Really?” It makes sense that Lance would love photos. He lives for the moment, Keith knows, savoring memories like candy.

“I wanted it every day we were in space.” Lance pauses, setting down the mug on the dresser, and tosses back the topsheet. “Here. Sit up.”

Keith watches as he shuffles around the desk —- he’s _not_ going to be weird about Lance just sleeping in his boxers — before procuring a huge, messy binder. Even as he lifts it, postcards and little bits threaten to slip out the top and bottom. It reminds Keith of all the old files at the library before they switched entirely to digital.

“I didn’t know you took photos.” He stares at all the photos that fall out of the binder pocket when Lance opens it. Most of these ones are blurry, or repeats of one another. There’s also a ticket stub for Disney World dated four years prior, and a piece of blue ribbon. “Were you gonna scrapbook it all?”

“That was the plan.” Lance is painfully gentle with the plastic pages, sliding his index finger between them to unstick everything. There has to be at least a hundred sheets pressed together, if not more. Every single of them is crammed with photos. “But then I was accepted to the Garrison.” He stops on the fourth page, fingers running over what Keith recognizes as an old snapshot of the house. “Things got a little busy after that.”

Keith doesn’t know what to say. He didn’t know Lance liked to take photos at all. He never mentioned it in space. _But you didn’t ask, so who’s fault is that?_ He sits quietly, coffee mug in hand, and watches as Lance rifles through the pages one by one.

Some of the photos are the same as the ones in the hall: school photos, soccer team and swim meet photos. Big family photos at the beach, or someone’s backyard. But there’s more pictures that he doesn’t recognize, like one of Lance holding his baby sister at the hospital, or a faded photo of the hammock when it was new. There are lots of candid snapshots that Lance couldn’t have taken himself, too; old and older photos of toddler Lance in a sandbox with his cousins, or at the beach with Tony.

Lance stops somewhere in the middle of the binder and leans back, nudging the binder towards Keith. He takes it obediently, noting it’s surprising weight.

“What is it?”

“In the middle of the page.” Lance points. “That one is my favorite.”

Of course. The photo dominates one page, blown up so that Keith can get a good look at all of the little details. There’s Lance, maybe six, beaming with a gap-toothed smile and an impossibly dark tan. Tony is beside him, also small and rumpled, with a scab on his knee. They’re in swim shorts, laughing about something, half-melted paletas clenched in either of their grips.

It’s the man they’re with that catches Keith’s eye the most. He’s broad-shouldered, with a stronger jaw that Tony has now, but the traces of Lance are unmistakable: the pointy nose, the sharp chin, the winged eyebrows. Bright, baby blue eyes on a dark face.

He’s got Tony and Lance balanced on each knee, an arm around both of their shoulders. He too is in swim shorts, and an old pair of black sandals.

Keith’s eyes flicker to the identical pair poking out from underneath Lance’s bed. His mouth goes dry.

“Mamá keeps everything,” Lance says, following his gaze. He smiles softly. “She always said we would grow into his things.”

“So the clothes I’ve been borrowing..?”

“Both of ours.” Lance nods.

“I’m sorry.” The words are automatic, his reflex against what suddenly feels like another painful intrusion. “I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t expect you to,” he replies easily. “And before you ask, it’s fine. We wouldn’t give them to you if it wasn’t. It’s our way of making you family.” Lance winks.

_Family._ Keith squirms, taking a sip of his coffee to hide his expression. Does he deserve to be called family? He’s only been here for four days. The photos on the walls are memories he’ll never have; the worn threads in blankets, in the couch, in the carpet aren’t made by him. Can he really be home?

But then he stops and takes a deep breath. The smell of pancakes is becoming clear, wafting in over _Fabuloso_ lavender cleaner and laundry detergent. He can hear Maria singing along to the timba, and a toilet flush elsewhere in the house. There’s life and sound here that he’s never had before. It feels _right._

He stares at the photo, noting the worn, curling edges. Someone used to handle this one a lot, before it was put into the binder. He swallows.

“Can we go on a walk today? Just the two of us.” He slides the binder back to Lance. “I heard it wasn’t gonna rain today.”

“If you’re sure,” Lance replies. He hasn’t stopped smiling, eyes crinkling adoringly as he stares at the photo a little longer. “We can go before dinner.”

 ***

By now, Keith knows the way to the beach well enough to lead. A sharp turn at the intersection, two blocks of bungalows, a long walk next to an old, fenced-off lot. The air is heavy with rain, so thick that he almost feels like he’s swimming, but none falls. The sky is grey as ever.

Lance trails close behind him with one arm swinging freely; the other is clasped tightly with Keith’s. He loves the way Lance’s skin is smooth to the touch, and how his fingers are long enough to curl around and lock his in. Their palms are sweaty, but it’s good.

The houses are alive with the fading sun. They can hear music and laughter coming from inside, smell barbecue and other foods from backyards and kitchens. They pass people on their way home from work and Lance waves at them all. Stranger or not, everyone smiles and returns the gesture — it’s as if Keith has stepped further into this dream, fantastic warmth spreading under his skin through his bones.

The beachside is postcard perfect, black-and-white with shades of grey. Keith can taste the breeze as it salts against his sticky skin; sweat is cooling on his body, hot and cold at the same time. He shudders, goosebumps spiking down his back, and squeezes Lance’s hand a little tighter. Lance returns the grip, smiling shyly over his shoulder at him.

“Let’s go down to the water,” Keith suggests, raising his voice over the crashing waves. He breaks free for a moment to kick off his sandals. _Lance’s dad’s sandals._ He thumbs over the dips and edges of the leather, tracing the outline of unfamiliar feet again and again. A piece of the past placed into his care.

Lance finds a long rock and immediately abandons his sandals to draw, padding through the wet sand. Keith watches him make two crooked circles, adding little eyes and spiky hair. It’s a child’s drawing, not unlike anything on the fridge at home.

Keith walks around the drawing, back to the ocean to see. There’s traces of him in the ridiculously long mullet Lance draws on one head, and an angry line for his eyebrows. He watches as Lance places finishing touches on his own face, careful to make his nose super pointy. He’s gone and drawn Keith’s eyelashes super long, with extra detail to his nose and mouth where Lance’s are just lines.

“Why do I look like that?” Keith laughs. He picks up a stone of his own, rinsing it in the ocean.

“What, with the eyes?” Lance cocks his head to one side, refusing to look up. “Do you think I did a good job? I wanted to make it obvious.”  
  
“Make what obvious?”

“How beautiful you are. Duh.” He scoffs as if this is common knowledge, but he won’t look at Keith at all; Keith can see how red his ears are getting even with his head turned away. _Oh._

“In that case,” he coughs, pushing past the lump in his throat, “you didn’t draw yourself right either.”

“What do you mean?” Lance’s head whips around. _He_ is _really red_ , Keith thinks. It makes him happy, somehow, that Lance could get just as embarrassed as he’s making Keith. “I think I did a good job.”

“No, it’s wrong, see?” He edges closer to Lance. “Riight.. _here!_ ” He nudges the other boy hard, bumping him with his hip hard enough to knock him over. Lance squawks, rolling into the wet sand. And then, to Keith’s delight, the waves come rolling in over his body.

“You little..!” Lance doesn’t let him laugh for too long, dragging himself up. He tackles Keith and pulls him back into the receding shoreline. They fall backwards into the water, Lance laughing as he squeezes Keith tight to his chest. Water is sloshing through every layer, but Keith is _warm._

He refuses to let Lance get the upper hand, writhing and wriggling out of his grip like an eel. For a while they thrash in the water and splash eachother. Keith is laughing so hard his stomach hurts; the taste of the ocean is intensely salty where it slips into his mouth, drying his tongue. Lance fares no better, spitting out mouthfuls of salt water when he has the chance.

They roll through the shallow water, waves hitting the back of Lance’s head as Keith tries to shove his head under. Lance’s arms are vice-like around his own, clamping on his forearms to pull him under too. They tumble through the tide.

“Wait!” Keith gasps, wrenching just enough space between their shoulders to tilt his head back and breathe. “Truce. _Truce_ , Lance.” He coughs a laugh, licking the salt from his lips. Lance’s eyes follow the movement; he’s breathing hard as well, chest rising and falling visibly through his shirt.

The silence stretches between them, punctuated by harsh, quiet breaths. Keith finds he doesn’t have any words left in him to fill the space. They blink, taking eachother in. Even in the water, charcoal grey under the clouds, Lance’s eyes are blue as a clear sky.

Carefully, so slowly that Keith can step out of the way if he wanted to, Lance drags one hand through the water up to Keith’s face. His fingers are shaking as they push back the hair there, tucking it behind his ear; his breath is warm where it fans across wet cheeks. Keith can barely breathe at all.

“I’ve been thinking,” he murmurs, running his fingers across Keith’s temple. He can’t help but lean into the touch, staring back into those blue eyes. “About us.”  
  
“Yeah?” Keith’s heart is going to jump right out of his mouth. He presses his lips together tightly.

“Yeah.” Lance pauses, licking his lips nervously. “We’re friends, right?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Well..” Lance bobs up and down. “What if, I dunno, I took you out on a date? Would we be.. something else?”

“Something else,” Keith echoes. He can feel a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. “Probably something else.”

“So then.” Lance sucks in a deep breath. “If I were to ask you out, right now, what would you say? Would that be okay? I mean, we’ve kind of gone out already with my sibs but that doesn’t _really_ count because you can’t bring your family on a date, and I would want to take you on a _real_ date where we share food in that gross romantic way and I’d hold your hand nonstop except when wanted to take a piss, and then we could walk by ourselves and I could maybe kiss you? Would that be okay?” He’s breathing hard again, positively pink, and it’s the cutest thing Keith has ever seen. His heart feels like it’s swelled twice its size.

“Yes, Lance.” He smiles, letting it take over his whole face. His eyes are squeezing up at the corners, and the salt from his eyelashes is making his eyes burn, but it’s fine. He feels tingly down to the tips of his toes. “That’d be okay. _More_ than okay. Except..”

“Except? Except what?” Lance’s eyes are huge, so big and beautifully blue. Every inch of him is beautiful, even wet and salty, clothes billowing out in the water. _He’s perfect just the way he is_ , Keith thinks. And he knows it’s true.

“I don’t want to wait,” Keith admits bashfully. “Can I kiss you now?” His own face is on fire but it’s okay. Everything will be okay, he’s sure of it.

“Yeah,” Lance whispers. “You can.”

They hover awkwardly in eachother’s space, bobbing close together. It’s one thing to be pressed close out of necessity, out of emergency. It’s another entirely to drift willingly into the heat of another’s body, so close that Keith can _feel_ the rise and fall of his chest. He places one hand tentatively on Lance’s cheek, running a thumb over his cheekbone. He’ll never get over how soft and warm Lance is, like he’s got the whole sun bottled up inside.

But then Lance is leaning _in_ and he’s leaning _up_ and they dive, meeting somewhere in the middle just like they always have. Just like they always will.

Above them the clouds break to let the last sunlight through, golden and whole.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lmk your favorite paleta flavor on [tumblr](http://poetatertot.tumblr.com/) if you'd like!


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